i am writing a sonnet

a poem about Lexa

A haunted, hooded, war-torn set of green,
And fingers, slender, callused, restless, strong,
Have carried her through horrors best unseen,
Through burdens to which only her belong.

You’d think her back would buckle from the weight
Of those she carries, from all that she’s sworn.
You’d think that those she’s lost, she’d venge with hate,
But visions of peace leave no time to mourn.

She gives herself to those whom she’d fain fail,
And sacrificial wounds have left her scarred.
Her heart wears “Love is weakness” like a veil,
For fear she deserves no higher regard.

Her fate may be to die, but this is true:
Her walls collapse when green collides with blue.

The spring is playing with us: every blooming tree covered with a layer of snow… I am writing out the gloomy mood.

A stillborn sonnet
The sheets hold me
In their womb.
I don’t want to be born yet
Into this day,
This morning
Of guilt and regret.
The grievances
And tenderness
Of yesternight
All turned to headache,
Heartache, mental filth.
As hopes come to a halt
I wonder
Who was really at fault.

his life started out like any other,
entered the world, breathed the surrounding air,
all he wanted was the warmth of his mother,
but nobody around him seemed to care.
he was taken away, cold and alone,
shackled, bellowing, to a tiny crate,
fed strange supplements, made from other’s bone,
awaited his inevitable fate.
and when the time came, he was sent away,
still a calf, too weak to move on his own,
he followed others, being shown the way,
on the kill floor, his future still unbeknown.
and on that day, he was rendered ‘just meat’
his body, and life, just something to eat.
—  my 14 year old sister sent me a sonnet she had to write for her homework and now I am crying

maybe it’s selfish but sometimes i think the only reason i stay alive is because i don’t want to miss the sunset. i don’t want to end up in a place where the sky is bleak and grey, reminding me of my inner decay i do not want to go a day without seeing orange, blue, pink. i fear that my punishment would be a grey sky but then i realize that i even love the rain and sometimes that’s enough to get me to say goodbye but the dark pink against the vast grey clouds reminds me; i am alive. and i know nothing more bittersweet than that.

6
Make me choose → vitaminwoo said here i am or day we broke up shik

December 15, 2013 - 22 months together.

An excerpt from Lying Next to My Sleeping Lover by Roberto C. Chavez (“Berto”):

I.

Lying next to my sleeping lover, I once again become a poet.

II.

My beloved rests

as I softly kiss his shoulders and cheek.

And he stays asleep

despite the tip of my nose

brushing against him

with each kiss I place.

Illuminated by the white light coming through the blinds,

I am inspired to write sonnets for him.

So this is the feeling poets write about

when enlightened by their muse.

For Aiden Nguyen.

At 2am my body aches for your touch.
At 2am my ears zone out to hear your voice.
At 2am my lips yearn to caress your lips.
At 2am I have withdrawals from your smell.
At 2am I fucking give up all my sense.
At 2am I am the most jealous. At 2am I am the most loving. At 2am I am the most devoted to you. At 2am I fall in love with our memories over and over again.
At 3am I should be dozing off but I’m not, because you are invading my mind.
At 3am I am whispering my wishes to the stars.
At 4am I am anticipating your arrival.
At 5am I am writing you sonnets and ballads to coax you into my arms.
At 6am I am hoping that the sun will take a littler longer to creep up this morning.
At 7am I am cursing my mind for keeping me awake.
At 8am I am remembering the things I said last night.
At 9am I am praying to the fucking gods that I see you today.
At all times of the day you are filling my thoughts. Capturing every attention I have to give. Making me fall in love all over again with every kiss we shared. Every touch we had. Every moment we contained. At every second of the day I am loving you more and more. Missing you more and more. And hoping that you are thinking of me.. As much as I am thinking of you.
—  For the Banana Samurai